


Missed Cues

by MHWK



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Reader Gender Neutral, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:32:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MHWK/pseuds/MHWK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the BBCSherlockImagines blog - Imagine Mycroft Proposing to You</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missed Cues

Working for Mycroft Holmes was a giant pain, but it seemed no one else could handle it. He had gone through at least four administrative assistants in the span of a month before you had arrived. You couldn’t blame those poor women one bit. He was a handful, and demanding. And occasionally, he would simply hold out his hand for something and it would turn into a giant guessing game to determine what he needed. If it wasn’t what he wanted, he would either childishly drop it and hold out his hand again, or he would give you a look that made you wish he would just yell instead.

The only reason you stuck around was because the pay was good. Actually, the pay was better than good. You had been looking for a flatmate for some time, but now you could afford a place all to yourself in the middle of London. Not that you saw your home very often… You were on call at all hours and sometimes Mycroft would call you and by the time you arrived, he would be onto a different subject. At those times, it was best to just sleep on his couch until he needed you again. It always put a crick in your neck.

Once upon a time, you had been happily scatterbrained, but Mycroft Holmes had shaped you into an attentive, highly observant, obsessive-compulsive, mildly psychic, assistant. You often asked yourself why you were still there.

“Y/N!” Mycroft sternly called from his office.

You had become caught in your thoughts. For the first time in nearly a year, you slipped up. Swearing under your breath, you prepared his tea and took it to him. Usually, he fetched his afternoon tea himself, but one day he had simply decided you were up to the task and had been expecting it ever since.

“A little slow today,” he said, not looking up at you as you set the cup upon his desk. 

You didn’t bother apologizing, he wasn’t listening anyway. 

“Have you considered simply coming in with me in the morning?” he asked.

You tried not to stare. That didn’t make any sense. You arrived a full hour before he did, just to make sure everything was ready throughout the day and properly in its place when he needed it. 

Cautiously, you informed him, “That would put me behind schedule, Sir.”

“You already are,” he said callously.

“It won’t happen again, Sir,” you replied. Mentally, you then reprimanded yourself. You couldn’t promise it wouldn’t happen again, and if it did, he would certainly bring up this moment. His attention to detail was beyond surprising, it was terrifying. You had ceased all relationships outside of family and close friends because of it. Dating was not even an option. A week into your position, you had stayed overnight at a fling’s home and Mycroft had certainly noticed. He didn’t say anything, but there was a look he gave you and a sound of disapproval that you hadn’t heard since but it was still a sound that haunted you. 

“See that it doesn’t,” he said.

You hadn’t been expecting that. It was unusually soft-hearted of him. Was he getting sick? You had lozenges from the last time he had a cold. It wasn’t a bad cold, but he had seemed a bit off. 

“Why are you still standing there?” he asked.

Quickly you walked back to your desk. Something was off. It had been for a few days, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. Was it you? Were you losing your edge? It couldn’t be him, Mycroft didn’t change for anything or anyone. 

It had to be you, you realized as you stared at your computer screen, eying the massive amount of emails that had just poured in. Mycroft had a habit of copying you in every conversation so that you could keep a paper trail and keep up to date. If there was anyone unfortunately privy to the massive amount of secret information that Mycroft was, it was you. A lot of it you didn’t want to know. Much of it, you were positive you weren’t supposed to know. 

“Y/N!” Mycroft called again.

You frowned. You could usually tell when he needed something. It was the way his chair squeaked when he shifted or the way he rustled the newspaper. It could even have been the way he set his cup down, a distinct little clink and slide. 

That was it, you were losing your touch. You had missed something. That was it. 

Defeated, you stood up. It was decided. You couldn’t keep up anymore. If you kept messing up, he would fire you and that would look bad wherever you applied next. If you were able to get a job next. Leaving a position like the one you were in would certainly come with a blacklisting. You knew too much. 

That thought made you pause. You did know too much. The other assistants hadn’t worked nearly as long as you had. You had been under Mycroft for a year, three months, two weeks, three days, six hours and twelve minutes. 

With a sigh, you decided you’d have to inform him that you were no longer capable of meeting his expectations and offer your resignation. That was how it had to be. 

Stepping into his office, you found his chair empty. You hadn’t heard him leave it. 

Mycroft stood by his window with his hands behind his back.

You hesitated to ask. You hadn’t asked in such a long time, but you couldn’t read him. “Sir?” you said softly. “What can I do for you?”

“How long have you worked for me?” he asked.

This was it, you were getting fired and blacklisted. It was best to just answer his question. He had already seen everything you had done or not done.

You began slowly, “One year, three months, two weeks, three days, six hours and…”

“And eighteen minutes,” he finished. 

He turned away from the window then and approached you. He was an imposing figure. You forced yourself to keep your feet planted. It wasn’t that you were afraid of Mycroft, in fact, you knew even if he got angry enough to throw things, he’d never hurt you. He’d never be angry enough to throw things, either. It just wasn’t the kind of man he was.

“In all my years,” he began roughly as he came to a stop in front of you. “I’ve never had an assistant like you.” 

You were waiting for the verbal lashing that preceded the immediate separation.

Then, he chuckled and said, “I’ve been trying to do this for a week now, but every time I gathered the courage, you always walked in before I was ready.”

You had braced yourself, but his humor threw you off again. What was going on? His back was to you before and you couldn’t read him. Now he was facing you and you were still drawing a blank. 

“I realized,” he said, “my chair would squeak, or I would drop the paper a little too loudly, or set my tea down a certain way. And you always knew what came next. I never had to ask a thing. And I’ve never met anyone that could read me like that.”

Reaching into his pocket, he lowered himself to his knee before you. “Y/n?” he asked. “I have no right to ask, and I understand I can be quite difficult. But would you do me the honor of marrying me?”

Before you he held a ring in a singular black box. It wasn’t a large stone, which you knew he could afford, but it was more your style, something that didn’t draw too much attention but was still more than beautiful in its own right.

There was only one answer to his question, but as tears slid down your cheeks, you could only reply, “I’m not fired?”


End file.
